Air Battle Force

artificial horizon was flipping and flopping, blurring almost into a continual shade of gray — what was wrong with that thing now? Two thousand meters… Shit, how was he supposed to stop this thing from…?

“I see. Very well. Instruct them to report their position to the Swedish radar controller, and then they may return to base.” Gryzlov replaced the phone in its cradle, then turned to the men around him. “I regret to inform everyone that it appears that President Sen’kov’s plane has crashed. The MiG-29 pilots escorting his plane saw him take the controls, then put the plane into a steep spinning dive. The bank got steeper and steeper until the plane entered a vertical spin, from which it was unrecoverable. The pilots observed the president’s plane hit the ground through their night-vision goggles.”

General Gryzlov took a briefcase from an officer and nodded. The officer removed a key and gave it to the general. “Because of the unexplained disappearance of the vice president, prime minister, and speaker of parliament, the normal order of progression has been interrupted, and I find it necessary to impose martial law in the Russian Federation.

“The first order of business is control of the special-weapons-unlock keys. As you can see, I now have the master special-weapons-unlock code key; Minister of Defense Bukayev still has the secondary key. The nuclear weapons of the Russian Federation are secure.

“We shall inform the people of the Russian Federation and the world of this tragic accident, the heroic efforts of President Sen’kov to save the lives of the crew, and of the smooth, peaceful transition of power. A search will begin immediately for the missing members of the executive and legislative branches. Until then I will assume responsibility for the central government as well as for the defense of our homeland.”

Gryzlov stepped behind the president’s desk, leaned over it with his knuckles pressed to the smooth top, and added, “Our first order of business: launch an immediate strategic and tactical bomber attack on the city of Charjew in the Republic of Turkmenistan. I don’t want one Taliban sympathizer or foreign interloper alive to threaten us again. We must recapture the oil and gas pipelines in that country and be sure they remain secure. Have ground- invasion forces standing by.”

CHARJEW, REPUBLIC OF TURKMENISTAN

Less than two hours later

“We’re outta here,” Hal Briggs said. He had jet-jumped to where Chris Wohl was standing guard with his electromagnetic rail gun. “The folks in Uzbekistan are airborne. We’ll rendezvous just before the Afghanistan- Turkmenistan border.”

“Outstanding, sir,” Chris Wohl responded. “I’d rather not stick around.”

“Mount up, then,” he said. He then turned to Jalaluddin Turabi, who was speaking with a large group of Central Asian soldiers. “We need to be airborne in just a few minutes, Turabi,” he said. The computers in his battle armor translated his words into Russian for him. “What’s the verdict?”

“The Turkmen representatives have decided to allow me to lead their armies,” Turabi replied proudly. “We are getting ready even now to set up barricades and defenses around Charjew.”

“Well, you deserve it,” Briggs said. “I never thought I’d say it, but you’re a good man, Turabi. You’re a good leader. The Turkmen made a wise choice.”

“Thank you for saving my life and helping my fighters, Taurus,” Turabi said, using Briggs’s call sign while in his Tin Man battle armor. “I will be forever grateful.”

“I’ll be grateful to you if you’d lead this country out of the dark ages of fundamentalism and help them rebuild themselves,” Briggs said. Turabi looked quizzically at him. “I wouldn’t want this country to turn out like Afghanistan did under the Taliban.”

“I don’t know how it will turn out,” Turabi said. “If the leaders of this country turn to the Taliban for help in rebuilding this country, I would be happy for that.”

“If that happens, I hope we’ll never meet again, Turabi, especially if you intend to keep on raiding United Nations convoys,” Briggs warned him. “We might find ourselves on opposing sides — again.”

“I will remember that, Taurus. But I am Taliban. I will follow my God and the leaders of my clan and try to be a loyal servant — to them, to my family, and my conscience.”

“My advice to you: Serve yourself and your family first, and then listen to your chiefs. Their goals may not be the same as yours,” Briggs said. “I wish you luck, Turabi — because if you’re ever in my sights, I won’t hesitate to blow your shit away. Count on that.” He turned and walked toward the waiting MV-32 Pave Dasher, loaded and with its engines spooling up, getting ready for takeoff.

Just then he heard, “Bandits, bandits, bandits. All Battle Force units, this is Bobcat One-three. Numerous bandits inbound, bearing two-niner-zero, one hundred ten miles bull’s-eye, very low altitude, speed six hundred knots.”

Briggs didn’t hesitate. “Tin Men, dismount,” he ordered. “Take defensive positions now! Everyone else, stay on board.” He turned to Turabi and said, “You’d better get your men into shelters, Turabi. The Russians could strike at any moment.”

Turabi ran off, waving for the others — Turkmen and Afghans alike — to head for underground shelters.

“We’ve been ordered to depart!” the pilot of the MV-32 radioed back. “They’re still at least ten minutes away — we’ve got time to make it out.”

“I said Tin Men, dismount!” Briggs repeated. “Bring your gear! Spread out to the northwest. Dasher, as soon as my men are out, you split. Get across the Uzbek border to Samarkand.”

“Damn it, Briggs, we can all make it out!” the pilot argued. “Why in hell are you staying?”

“I said get going!” Briggs shouted. As soon as the eighth and last Tin Man was out of the tilt-jet aircraft, he jet-jumped to the northwest. The other Tin Men spread out with him, deploying about two miles apart so they could concentrate their firepower, cover as much territory as possible, and avoid being caught in one single-weapon attack. Each Tin Man commando carried an electromagnetic rail gun with plenty of tungsten- steel projectiles, plus a support bag with spare battery packs and spare parts for their battle armor and powered exoskeleton.

The MV-32 Pave Dasher lifted off in a blinding cloud of dust and sand and had just started rotating its engine nacelles from vertical lift to airplane mode… when the first Russian cruise missile hit. Several fuel-air explosions bracketed the MV-32 perfectly, creating a gigantic viselike crushing machine that shattered the tilt-jet aircraft and its passengers and crew into several thousand pieces and slammed it all into the sand.

Eight

CHARJEW, REPUBLIC OF TURKMENISTAN

A few minutes later

Tin Man, Tin Man, report,” Briggs shouted into his commlink. One by one his men reported in. Their datalinked vital-sign information already showed them all alive, but he really needed to hear their voices, too — and he thought it was important for them to hear his.

Last to report in was Chris Wohl himself. “You okay, Taurus?” he asked.

“Affirmative. But the folks at the airfield got creamed.” Actually, he thought “cremated” might be a better word. “Everyone, check your gear, check your weapons, set up a defensive perimeter, and get ready to move out. Top, I expect the Russians are going to move in with paratroopers next. Figure out likely drop zones nearby and draw us up a plan to move there.”

“Roger.”

“Base, this is Taurus. The airfield has been hit by multiple fuel-air explosions,” Briggs radioed back to Battle Mountain. “They came out of nowhere — probably cruise-missile attacks. Dasher One is out — shit, Base, I can’t even see the pieces.”

“We copy, Taurus,” Patrick McLanahan responded from his Battle Management Center in Battle Mountain. Damn it, he swore to himself, he should’ve known they’d lead off with a fuel-air cruise- missile attack — it’s exactly what Gryzlov did in Chechnya and Mary. He should’ve had all the ground forces move away from Charjew across the border and then exfiltrate them. “The first wave of Russian bombers is turning